


Invasions

by iloveflad



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Silly Diary Entries, Silly Old Men, Valvert Gift Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveflad/pseuds/iloveflad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the confrontation, Valjean made an escape with a girl and disappear. Javert returned to M-Sur-M to find out any evidence he’d left. And the inspector found Valjean’s secret diary that wrote about him since he arrived M-Sur-M. He decided to keep the diary with him until they meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invasions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MorningSleepingbag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningSleepingbag/gifts).



> My gift to m24601 who wrote this prompt. Thank you for the wonderful prompt!

After all that’s happened he is back here. Back in front of the door to Madeleine’s office in the factory at Montreuil-sur-Mer. No, Javert mentally corrects himself, there has been no Madeleine. Madeleine does not exist. And yet he cannot bring himself to say 24601’s office. It’s a bizarre idea, that a convict who has broken parole should have the assets of a magistrate, and be respected as one. Even after everything: Valjean’s confession to save the old man, the confrontation between them, then himself chasing and failing to capture Valjean and the girl, he still cannot see the two man as one and the same. They seem like complete opposites. Javert can conjure their images in his head with precision: the vulgar convict on the chain gang and the kind old mayor. No matter how hard he tries, Javert cannot combine the images to give him what Valjean really looks like. In fact, Javert saw another Valjean, when he had the daughter of Fantine trailing behind him; it was only a glimpse, as it was dark and Javert was on horseback and everything was just a blur of chase, but Javert saw on Valjean’s face the grim determination like a mother protecting a loved one, an expression Javert could never imagine on the mayor or the convict.

Javert finds himself wondering whether Valjean has a dozen different masks up his sleeves he can wear when he needs to hide his true identity. But that is ridiculous and Javert dismisses the thought as he grips the doorknob and enters the room. Everything is still in place, the armchair, the wooden desk and the papers piled on top that never seems to decrease in number no matter how hard the mayor works through them every day. Sunlight courses through the window which overlooks the streets of M-sur-M, filling the room with a soft light. Standing in this office, it seem so easy to believe that nothing has happened and that the Mayor will walk in any second and greet him in his soft voice with his usual, ‘ Good morning, Inspector.’ Javert stares at the closed door and finds himself half wishing that that would be real; he wishes everything that has happened be a dream and that Madeleine isn’t Valjean; they would continue with their routines, the Mayor and the inspector, doing their best in their own ways to make this small town flourish.

That would not be, Javert tells himself as he tears his gaze from the door and returns to examine the desk and its contents. A man can never change; a con can never become a Mayor, not for long. The desk has a drawer and Javert reaches out to open it.

He is here in search of evidence, he tells himself, although he knows even before he arrives he’s not going to find anything worth dealing with. It’s not like he had anything he needed to prove, not when Valjean had personally travelled to Arras and declared to the judges that yes, indeed, he is the real Jean Valjean, prisoner 24601. Then for what is he here? Javert cannot answer.

Inside the drawer is another stack of paper. Upon closer inspection Javert identifies it as one of the reports he had submitted to Valjean. Javert sighs. This is meaningless; he should go back the police station and start his work, instead of standing here sorting through Valjean’s junk. Exactly what is he expecting to find?

Something in the drawer catches Javert’s eye. There, peeking out from the stack of paperwork is a corner of a book with a brown cover. He digs it out and scrutinizes it. It is the size of Javert’s palm, not very thick, and has a leather cover. It looks well-kept, but shows obvious signs of being used. Flicking through it briefly, Javert finds that it is covered with cursive handwriting which he recognizes as Valjean’s. The book is not fully written; about half of the book is blank.

Now, Javert has never been able to tolerate his own privacy invaded, and as such he also tries his best not to invade others’. Valjean is a convict, a prisoner, Javert tells himself again; a prisoner does not have the right to privacy. Still, a guilty feeling bugs his mind as he randomly opens a page. He feels like a kid trying to sneak a piece of bread from the dinner table without the mother’s approval. He starts reading.

 _Coldest day of the year by far, though the snow has yet to come._ Javert has to squint a little to decipher some of Valjean’s handwriting.  _Am considering giving the workers a few days off should the weather get colder. Some of the ladies were saying how the cold makes their fingers too stiff to put the thread through the beads. Ran into Javert on patrol while heading home,_ Javert starts when he sees his own name,  _how he could bear the freezing winds through the night walking in the streets I d not know. Without even a scarf! Persuaded him to accompany me and then to go home. He tells me he has no need for a scarf, though I suspect he cannot afford one. Would he be offended if I gift him one? Maybe as a thank-you present for keeping the town in order?_

Javert scowls at the idea of Valjean giving him a scarf; he remembers that night now, Valjean insisting he go home with him, both their houses located in the same part of the town, and persisting in asking Javert whether he had had enough clothes to get him through the bitter coldness of winter. Javert had tried to convince him that he can survive with his coat and gloves, but he is not surprised that Valjean figured out what the real reason behind was. Policemen are well known for having low wages and popularity alike. Though Valjean had never gotten round to give him the scarf like he has written. Probably because by the time the snow fell Valjean had forgotten, with the whore’s sickness and his own denouncement’s distraction. Javert turned the page.

 _Javert’s report lasted more than an hour. Wonder if he knows that it’s completely meaningless telling me what he has done and what needs to be done. I would not be able to aid him in any way. Cannot imagine what he would look like if I tell him I had never bothered listening to what he says. Only have to nod when he pauses,_ a muscle under Javert’s eye twitches as he reads this, _and approve to all his plans on how to further lower the crime rate. Have to admit, it is not entirely uncomfortable to sit and listen to his voice. It is quite pleasant to the ear, unlike the high squeaks of the ladies in the factory complaining about this thing and that._

How funny it is, Javert thinks. While Valjean as Monsieur le Maire wore a gentle smile at all times and listened to anyone whatever they have to say, he wasn’t completely void of personal opinions of others. Of course he would be too polite to express them anywhere except in his diary, but it is well to know that he isn’t some godly, unfeeling saint. Javert does feel mildly annoyed at the fact that Valjean hadn’t been paying attention to his reports-for god’s sake did he put an effort to compose them!- though he does not understand how Valjean has found listening to his ranting voice pleasant. He is aware that his voice is deep and slightly growly, but that usually leads to people remarking on the difficulty to comprehend what he is saying, not on its pleasantness. He licks the tip of his finger before he turns so that the pages do not stick together.

 _Small-talked with one of those lovely ladies by the docks after giving her a few francs for bread. Said she noticed I tend to linger in Javert’s presence, always trying to find some issue to discuss or some problems to argue,_  Javert narrowed his eyes _; even winked and asked me whether the inspector is worth all the trouble. Of course I only shooed her on her way, but it leaves me to ponder. Surely, this feeling,_ Javert feels his face heat up a bit _, me towards Javert, cannot be affection? However sure I am that he does not recognize me, still he is Javert. Shouldn’t a thief be afraid of an inspector, a convict resentful of a guard?_

Javert stared. His mind doesn’t seem to be able to process the information. He just sits there, in Valjean’s old chair, frozen. He had not noticed the Mayor to have been remotely attracted to him before, during the whole time he was inspector in M-sur-m. He did extend several dinner invitations to Javert, though none of them were accepted as Javert had not wanted to taint the Mayor’s house with his gloomy presence. Although he did seemed to bump into the Mayor on the streets a few too many times for it to be completely accidental. Was that Valjean’s intention? To have more chances to walk side by side with his inspector while talking about the town, the folks, or their work in the station or factory? He wonders what Valjean might feel towards him when he realized Javert had recognized him after all. He flips though the book until he reaches the last page that has been written on. There is a big splatter of ink on the page. Valjean had probably upturned the ink jar, thinks Javert. Under the spilled ink is Javert’s name, in block letters. Javert turns the page but there’s nothing at the back.

Javert carefully tucks the thin book inside his greatcoat. He swears that he would find him and put him behind bars, but he has a feeling that it will be a long time before he sees Valjean again.

“What are you reading?” Valjean’s voice rings right next to Javert’s ear, startling him.” Have you finally discovered the joy in reading for leisure?”

Javert is sitting cross-legged on the bed. “I try my best to avoid reading when it’s not necessary, so no,” replies Javert. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, about this.” He holds up the leather book he has been reading. Valjean sits down beside him, his long legs swinging at the side of the bed.

It has been three months since Javert’s resignation from the police force. He handed in the letter that night the barricade fell, after he had left Valjean in his house and walked away. Wandering aimlessly after leaving the station, he found himself standing at the parapet of the Seine. Looking down at the muddy waters, Javert could not deny that, at that moment, he had had a desire to throw himself down the bridge and never think about anything again. Then, he remembered Valjean’s diary and the question he had that has remained unsolved.

Valjean was still waiting at the doorstep; he took one look at Javert’s disheveled state and ushered him into his house and on to bed, lest Javert’s knees give out and he collapses.

How they have come to what they are now Javert cannot say; he doesn’t even know how he would describe their relationship. It is something more than just very good friendship, but not enough to be, well, a couple.   

“Is that…” Valjean frowns at it. He tugs the book away from Javert’s hand and examines it.

“Yes,” says Javert. He takes it back and turns to the page where the ink splatter and his name is at.

“Christ, I’d forgotten I had this. How did you find it?”

“Never mind that. Why is my name here? Was this written before you reveal yourself?”

Valjean squints at the page. “Have you read though the whole thing?” he asked, snickering.

Javert inclines his head. “I might have.” he says. “Don’t change the subject.”

Valjean is silent for a while.

“I was in doubt, at that time. I wasn’t sure whether I should denounce myself. To save Champmathieu seemed to be the right thing to do; and yet, there was my factory, my town. If I were sent to jail, the workers’ families would starve. I kept asking myself, wouldn’t God be more pleased if I stay Mayor and make the town prosper? I could have achieved so much more, saved so much lives of the poor. Wouldn’t my life be used in service to Him more being Madeleine for the rest of my life than going back to rot in Toulon?”

Javert glances sideways at Valjean. He is looking down at his hands, smiling slightly, recounting his own tumultuous past with the serenity of an old man who has passed every single one of life’s trials.

“I was confused, tired and worn out. I prayed all night, yet God had not answered to me. So I decided to write my diary, like I do every other night, trying to lie myself into believing that nothing abnormal had happened. Of course that didn’t work,” Valjean chuckles. ‘I don’t really remember spilling the ink, but I was doing everything near unconsciously then so I probably did. Then I thought of you, as I always do when I write. I wondered how you would feel if I denounce myself. And it strikes me…and I thought…quite selfishly, that if I reveal my identity and go on a run, you would follow me for the rest on your life, constantly trying to find me out. And I thought, isn’t that a much closer relationship then, you know, simply between a magistrate and an officer?”

Valjean looks up and sees Javert staring at him in disbelief. He grimaces.

“I know it’s ridiculous, I know. But you would know, if you had read though this, that I had been…admiring you for some time then. Apparently, it was due to that selfish and not at all honorable reason that I’d finally made my decision.”

Javert does his best to ignore the butterflies in his stomach Valjean’s speech has brought alive and speaks, slowly, “I guess you are not as noble as credited, are you?”

Valjean grins. “No, I suppose not.” 


End file.
